Comfort and Joy Read Free Page B

rather than a Martini – I have a vague notion that it won’t be as strong. I don’t want to
     be drunk: my tolerance for alcohol has decreased tragically with age, and these days my hangovers can last up to
forty-eight hours. I wouldn’t mind, but they’re so seldom worth it.
    The white-jacketed cocktail man catches my eye and smiles as he makes my drink, and I am filled with love for humanity. This
     is so … civilized, so old-fashioned, so
wonderful
, such a rare treat. The waiter brings an assortment of snacks, and having taken a sip of my drink, I peer round with interest
     at my fellow humans. It is as I thought: smart couples of a certain age, the odd patrician-looking, pinstriped businessman
     of the kind that has offices in St James’s, two elderly ladies with stonking jewels and too much face powder, hooting with
     laughter. I imagine this is their annual ritual, that they are old friends who still meet for their Christmas drink, like
     they have done for decades. I hope me and Tamsin are like that, when we’re really old. I can just see us.
    Arse. Tamsin. My oldest and dearest friend. Tamsin is coming to Christmas and I haven’t got her a flipping present. How did
     that happen? She always comes to Christmas and I’ve never forgotten before. I got her boyfriend a present and not her: how
     crap. I rack my brain, trying to picture the contents of my emergency present cupboard, which is where I store gifts that
     need to be recycled because they’re not my bag, or stuff I get sent by PR people (advantage of working for a glossy magazine).
     But Tamsin likes the same stuff as me, so if it’s in the cupboard it won’t be her bag either. And she can always tell if I
     palm her off with some freebie. Crap. Crap. Crapadoodledo. Wasn’t she on the list? I dig around in my handbag and find she
     wasn’t. Terrible oversight, of the kind that makes me worry about getting Alzheimer’s. I take another sip of my cocktail,
     surprised to note that it’s nearly finished. The thing is, now Tam’s finally hooked up with someone, the pressure to give
     her a fantastic present isn’t as massive as it used to be during her (prolonged, eternal-seeming, much moaned-about) single
years, when I felt it was my duty as friend-in-chief to buy her the kind of thing that a) she could never afford (she’s a
     school- teacher) and b) a boyfriend might give her. And now, hallelujah, she has a boyfriend, a proper one, Jake – they’ve
     been together nearly a year. He is incredibly old and sometimes they use Viagra (again, I worry fleetingly about having bought
     him pants: aside from anything else, does it make it obvious that Sam and I have discussed his aged loins?), but we needn’t
     dwell on that – the point is that as far as I remember he usually buys her nice presents. He gives good gift. So it’s not
     so bad. I’ll just make a note to nip to the …
    ‘Is this seat taken?’
    I glance up briefly. There’s one of those interchangeable men in suits standing there, pointing at the club chair opposite
     mine.
    ‘No, no – have it,’ I say, looking down at my present list again. They had really nice stripy cashmere scarves at the shop
     down the road from home – I’ll get her one of those in the morning. And some books. And maybe some pants, so Jake doesn’t
     feel victimized. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’
    ‘You don’t mind?’
    ‘Not at all,’ I say, still looking at my lap and scribbling ‘T – scarf + pants’ on my list. ‘I’m going in a minute, anyway.’
    ‘I’m grateful. It’s very busy in here,’ the man says. ‘May I get you another drink?’
    ‘No, thank you. I think I’d better …’ I look up properly for the first time. ‘Oh.’
    He is raising his eyebrows, and smiling.
    It feels like about twenty minutes go by, in slow motion. I am looking at the man. He is looking at me. Nobody is speaking.
     I can hear the old ladies laughing, though they sound very far away.
    ‘Another